Wish upon a Moon, Dance atop a Star
by Mersedes
Summary: Can a broken Ryou Bakura find his way to his heart and soul again? Ryou/Yami Bakura. Angst/Drama/Action/Romance/Hurt/Comfort - and not in that order. Warning: Dark Matter.
1. Chapter 1

**Wish upon a Moon, Dance atop a Star**

**Summary:** Can a broken Ryou Bakura find his way to his heart and soul again?  
**A/N:** And now without further ado…the story! Please sit back, relax, and plunge right in! :)

The moon's dulled rays hit the dark surface of the churning waters below. Shadows danced across the field, while the moon gazed at her reflection in the rippling depths. A haunting melody drifted in the air, and then disappeared into the darkness. Water splashed across the rocks. The waves rose, gained speed, surged, and hit the rocks, then receded slowly, drained, defeated after their one glorious moment of defying gravity.

A lone figure stood at the edge of the precipice, rocking backwards and forwards on the balls of his feet. His pale colored hair shone liquid silver in the moonlight, dancing about his face as the wind tugged playfully at the long strands. Bright droplets glistened, slipping down his cheeks, plummeting into the abyss below, gathering in the vast waters, swirling darkly.

The figure rocked forward dangerously, his feet slipping off the crumbling edge—

-.-

"Yo, kid!" A tall lanky man shouted into the kitchen. He ran his hands through his graying hair, and leaned against the counter. He surveyed the front room, and shook his head exasperatedly. Soft, dim light glowing from sparse light bulbs hung low on the ceiling created a hazy sort of lethargic atmosphere—perfect for attracting clients.

The music was turned low, but he could hear the deep, bass beats thrum in the speakers. The lingering scent of smoke and alcohol hung in the air cloyingly, and he could just imagine the boy rushing through the room, serving cantankerous customers and cleaning on some days, while during other days, calming the rowdy crowds with his boyish charm.

He almost pulled down a stool down to sit, but stopped. Chairs were neatly aligned in perfect squares. The tables were wiped clean of all crumbs and spilled drink. And he knew only one person had worked the central shift tonight.

His shoes clicked on the floor as he walked around the room, fiddling with his watch. His eyes widened almost imperceptibly as he noted the late—or early—hour.

"Hey, kid!" He shouted again. He leaned against the counter, his back to the door. Seconds later, he heard the door burst open, and gasps of breath behind him.

He could feel the nervousness roll off the boy in waves, and could imagine the ever-present panicked shine in his eyes before he turned around to face his employee. He would normally find it funny, instilling such a deep fear within his employees' hearts that they followed his directions to the letter. He'd been doing that for years to get his workers off their lazy bums, as they were continually wont slack off.

Who wanted to work here, anyways? A sorry bunch of half dressed men and women who couldn't make it in their younger years, and yet hoped to earn some quick cash. He knew what they did during their breaks, and before and after, but did nothing to stop it, so long as it didn't interfere with their work.

He flicked an imaginary piece of lint off his suit before completely facing the younger.

"Sir?" The breathless syllable hung in the air, lighter and purer than the smoke stinging his eyes.

Once again, oddly enough, the worry in the boy's soft voice tugged at a remote place in his heart, one that he'd buried many years ago. He found it strange that he could decipher so much about the boy from a single word. What was stranger, still, was that he could _hear_ the boy clearer than he could hear the crescendo of the pounding music reverberating throughout the room. There was so much wrapped up in that voice, that he was sure it could carry halfway through the world and knock down those listening hard enough.

The boy shifted, and lowered his head so that his hair covered his eyes. He could see teeth dig into a pale lower lip, fingers pluck listlessly at his borrowed uniform. The ever-so-slight hitch in the younger's shoulders as he walked closer, his heels echoing against the slick floor.

"What time was your shift over?"

No pleasantries. No greetings.

The boy shifted nervously.

"N-Nine o'clock, sir." The answer was intoned as a question, murmured softly, the answer flowing from an aching tongue.

He'd known what the boy had to do at times. He didn't condone it of course, but he had told his steeds not to let it get out of hand. As long as it brought in the cash, it wasn't a problem. And the boy hadn't been hurt—well, hurt enough to scar permanently—either physically or emotionally. _And_ he was nice enough to allow him to keep the extra tips.

He found it strange trying to justify his actions with himself.

"What of Liza?"

The boy squirmed uncomfortably.

"Wasn't closing her duty?"

He studied his fingernails, aware that the only people remaining were they.

"She-she wasn't feeling well," the boy said quickly, his tongue almost tripping over the lie. He knew they both recognized it for what it was, too. But it would be useless to acknowledge.

He sighed as a man would sigh when it wasn't he who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, but when he saw it all balanced precariously upon another's.

He nodded, and finally glanced at the boy. He watched as his hand reached out to cup his chin, and raise it so he could look at the boy's face. He peered closely at his high cheekbones, the color flush on his cheeks, the barely concealed bruises lining his jaw, a disgusting faded purple color—remnants of the brawl last week. Childish features, his mind pure as white snow in a dump like this.

He didn't belong here.

He dared not look at the questioning eyes, so filled with innocence and hope, untainted by the evils of the world, though he danced dangerously with them daily—almost flaunting that innocence. Almost begging to be taken, to be tainted, to be…

He shook his head at the direction his thoughts had taken. The warm skin cupped in his palm was smooth, uncut by a razor's sharp edge. Those teeth were at his lip again, betraying his nervousness. He wiped a smudge of soap off the curve of his nose with his thumb and, uncharacteristically, pulled the boy into a rough embrace.

He rubbed the boy's back as the younger tensed, and then finally sagged wearily against him. He trembled and his shoulder shook before the boy tightened his hold on his waist. He could feel the boy's warm breaths puff against his shoulder, his arms slowly curl around his waist, his heart beat rhythmically, his body pulse with life.

"If you were my son," his voice echoed in the dark room. "I'd raise you with mounds of caramel flavored toffee and mugs of hot chocolate every day."

The boy felt whole in his arms, alive and safe. He wished he could hold him forever.

"You'd spoil me rotten," the soft voice responded from the folds of his suit. His lips curved into a half smile.

"Damn right I would," he agreed. He rested his chin atop the boy's head, and breathed in the faint scent of ripe blueberries. He allowed his eyes to slip shut, just for a second, to relish in the complete peacefulness of the atmosphere; there were no insistent customers, no tinkling of glass against groaning countertops, no rush—just the child in his arms and the music vibrating in the air and the scent of soap.

The dark windows glared at him, reminding him of the outside world, and his place and his duties and his subsequent helplessness. He itched to pull the shades down, but didn't want to let go of the boy.

Finally, he released him, and gave him one last pat on the head. He whirled around, and swept away, upstairs into his flat, blindly stumbling over neatly stacked boxes. He wished he could have told the boy to leave—the boy whose name rang in his ears, so reminiscent of his long dead son, the same knowing eyes, the same tranquility, the same omnipresent kindness…

His hand curled over where his heart should have been, and a hollow ache pulsed in rhythm with the music downstairs. He wished he could have said something to comfort the child, but he had nothing left to say.


	2. Chapter 2

**Wish upon a Moon, Dance atop a Star**

**Summary: **Can a broken Ryou Bakura find his way to his heart and soul again?

**Disclaimer:** I'd love to put something remotely creative here…but, in the end…I have to say I _do _own Ryou Bakura and his adorableness…OUCH no handcuffs!!! Ok, ok FINE! XD I do not own Yu Gi Oh, or any of the characters...'sigh'

**Chapter 2**

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The boy stepped over a cracked beer bottle, one of several dozen lining the walk. His scuffed shoes crunched quietly over the glass shards embedded into the ground, shining like jagged crystals under the glowing moonlight. Buzzing neon lights flickered in his vision, the dying hum of muted greens, yellows, and oranges ringing in the quiet streets. The putrid scent of sulfur hung in the tasteless air, of decaying milk and eggs, and assaulted his senses as he crossed the street and crept into the alley; the rusted dumpster lid hung open lazily, and belched the rancid odor between the narrow space.

A quick movement and a rattle startled the boy, but he breathed a sigh of relief as a bright eyed rodent sprung off the garbage heap and scampered away. He coughed as the awful scent burned his throat; his eyes were watering. Holding his sleeve to his nose, he stumbled through the alley, tripping over various implements he'd rather not know about. Suspicious stains marked his path, and he did his best to sidestep them, but he couldn't ignore the moans echoing in the dilapidated buildings around him. He crossed his arms across his chest and rubbed away the goose bumps on his arms while quickening his pace.

His fingers dug into his forearms as he readied himself for the next part of his trip home. At times, he was uncomfortably aware that he was the cynosure of wandering gazes—attracting attention with his odd, pale hair, pale skin, warm eyes—but his boss had always kept him safe from that at work. He chewed his lip worriedly; his co-workers, who he'd walk with in this part of town, had already left for the day.

He straightened his shoulders and held his chin higher than normal, trying to do his best to look confident as he turned onto a smaller road. The way was lined almost absurdly with disheveled men sucking the necks of their beer bottles and laughing raucously as scantily clad women, thinly veiled bulging bosoms enclosed in skimpy dresses, arched their backs and wrapped their legs around the men, each other, everything.

Music pumped loudly from an unknown source, throbbing. His heart pulsed in and out of rhythm, and the breath whooshed out of his lungs, struggling back in quick, shallow gasps. The alley was lit brightly by the moon shining directly overhead and the sharp lamp-lights strung from open doorways. Teeth glistened, painted lips smirked, eyes smoldered, hands flung aside clothes as wandering fingers groped expanses of exposed skin.

The boy shuddered, and quickened his pace down the short road, his shoes crunching wrappers and slipping against fluid. He flushed with embarrassment as a large group blocked his way, dipping their hands into their pants, down shirts, backs, chests, fondling what the boy couldn't see, but could definitely guess. A couple thrust and bucked wildly against the other wall, and the boy's cheeks burned a brighter red, and he fought back a panicked whimper. He ducked his head, his hair falling naturally to hide his eyes, careful not to meet the gaze of any of the drugged and drunken crowd.

He side-stepped the couple, their groans and shrieks so close to his ears that he wished for another cleaner way home—but was too afraid to walk into gang territory—and then snuck past the group at the neck of the road. He raced down the other alley-ways, forgetting to appear calm and collected—he just _had_ to get out of there—he'd seen enough to last him a life-time in these past few months. Gasping and shuddering for clean air, he slowed to a more sedate pace. He gripped his stomach, and held the bile down and he dry heaved as the images and the smells came back to him. He braced himself against the cool glass of a window, far enough away from _that alley, _and caught his breath, pushing his damp hair from his sweaty forehead.

A pair of eyes stared at him, and with a jolt, he realized he was just staring at his reflection. They were almond shaped, ringed with a slight dusting of kohl, and held a mercurial set of sparkling hazel, set above a small nose beside high cheekbones. He blinked and breathed hard, fogging the smudged glass. Suddenly, a sharp wind tore through his thin uniform, whipping his silvery air about his face, creating the image of an ethereal angel glowing under moonlight in the burnt darkness of the night. The boy coughed as the dust and dirt kicked up, and turned away from the window.

A few streets down, a spattering of lights from empty porches lit his path as he made his way down the leaf-strewn sidewalks. The trees murmured softly to him, dropping their leaves in his wake as he passed them with a slight smile alighting his curving lips. He cast a longing gaze at the neat box-like houses outlined by short shrubs and sleeping goldenrods, colors muted, curtains drawn, sealing the slumbering occupants from the outside world. He could just imagine children tucked into bed, parents next door,

He thought back to the evening, and already missed the warm, fatherly embrace of his boss; it had been a long times since someone had hugged him that way. It made him feel warm, and protected, and wanted—quite unlike the ugly leering looks he received during work and the condescending glares from his classmates that made him feel cold and small and alone. For those few seconds, it felt like he was a child again. His father's face flashed across his vision, his eyes crinkling with happiness and a half smile on his face—and then contorted into an angry grimace. He flinched involuntarily, the reaction set so deep within his bones, he couldn't be rid of it.

With a sharp mental tug, he dragged his morose thoughts swiftly away by the ear. He turned onto another street, this time lit by white lamplight scattered all the way down the road, and untied the keys from his waist. He quickly dug his heels into the moist lawn, and dragged the rest of his foot backwards to clean off the gunk. He did the same with the other shoe, and then climbed up the steps of his front porch. He looked backwards once more, left and right. No one was out (in his neighborhood, at least), not even a mouse. His lips quirked up as he quoted the childish sounding rhyme, shaking his head.

The keys dangled from his fingers, swinging to and fro. He casually flicked them around the ring before he found the bronze teeth for his front door, and slipped it in quietly. Warmth swirled around him and the scent of fried vegetables and rice wafted in the air. _Home_ he thought, a sense of exhaustion sweeping over him. He toed off his shoes, and turned to close the door.

A whirl of white entered his vision before he could even touch the paneling, and a fist slammed the wood behind his ear. He flinched and backpedaled into the door loudly.

"Where the fuck have you been?"

"Bakura..." He began, toeing off his shoes. He slid the door shut, and let his head lean against the door, his hair cascading forward. He hid his tired eyes from his counterpart. "Sorry, I had to work late, tonight."

He turned around and held his breath, waiting for the inevitable vehemently reproving and irate remarks.

"You couldn't have called?" his Yami asked, bitingly sharp.

"I forgot to charge my cell last night," he replied.

"And you complain about me being irresponsible." His Yami leaned over him, and clutched the front of his uniform. His breath hitched, and he trembled.

"I didn't mean to--"

The fist in his shirt tightened, and he shut his mouth. His Yami slammed his fist against the door next to his face. He cringed and trembled, breathless.

"Does it look like I give a shit? I'm supposed to be fucking taking care of Pee Wee here, and all he does is bullshit around. Get your ass home on time tomorrow."

He fell back against the door after his Yami let him go, and then bounded up the creaking stairs. He tried to calm his pounding heart as he stripped out of his clothes. Covering his face in with his hands, he slumped against the wall.

After a few moments of listening to faint strains of the TV floating upstairs, he crawled into bed and curled under the covers. His stomach rumbled, but he curled himself tighter.

The pipes gurgled and a dog barked outside and slowly, he fell asleep.

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End file.
